Students of Keats’ poetry and personality are not likely to admit that a new life of him was called for, in view of Sir Sidney Colvin’s searching and critical study which has just appeared in a third edition. Amy Lowell’s reason for putting forth a new biography was that she had new material; but what I say elsewhere about Barton’s Lincoln applies here: the new material justified a brochure, not a life.
Miss Lowell wanted to write a life of Keats; that, aside from anything else, was reason enough for her. She had a vicarious mother-feeling for him and she was determined to display it. Her last book is an enduring monument to her industry, patience and perspicacity. She had a relish for criticism, but at times she confounded it with abuse and when she championed an individual, a cause, or a movement, she did it in the manner of a fellow-townsman, John L. Sullivan: with all her might and main. She “never trembled like a guilty thing surprised,” or if she did it was only when she was enraged by the stupidities and ignorance of others—those who did not agree with her.
JOHN KEATS IN HIS LAST ILLNESS
From the sketch by Joseph Severn, January 28, 1821,
which Charles Cowden Clarke characterised as “a
marvellously correct likeness.”
Engraved by Timothy Cole and reprinted by permission
of “The Century Magazine”
Keats is a fascinating figure and always will be. The son of a stableman, the doors of the best literary society in London were opened wide to him; though he had but few years of mortal life, and few months of literary activity, he has become one of the greatest English poets. It was not the pathos of his existence, the diseases that ravaged him, the hopelessness of his love, or the relative isolation in which he was morally steeped that focusses our interest. It is his conception of poetry, his flight into the world of dreams untinged by reality, and the wondrous rapidity with which he scaled the heights of imagery. They made him immortal. In “the Armour of Words and with the Sword of Syllables” he fought a great battle and won. His personality had many facets and they were nearly all made to arrest attention, enlist sympathy and inspire admiration; but poet though he was, he was a man, and his human side is as deserving of study as his poetical nature; in the latter, there is primarily genius, and genius is not to be explained or understood, still less studied. In the former, there is the weakness of a mere mortal and the strength of an intelligence; the misery of bad health, and the victory of will-power; the alleged resignation to death and the desire to live; the heart break of the man whose ambitions were never fulfilled, and the exaltations of the lover who believes his love to be reciprocated; the grimace of the lip which finds gall in the cup from which it drinks, and the satisfaction of the heart which has faith in the world and confidence in friendship. All these aspects of the poet Amy Lowell has followed day by day, almost hour by hour, with the persistency of a detective. From the slightest cue, she lays a course which soon leads her to the exact day and the approximate hour when Keats accomplished the action she describes, and with the support of a clear conscience and the encouragement of proofs, to her irrefutable, she opposes the judgment of other biographers, and fearlessly and categorically contradicts them. This scarcely justifies her assertion “We may say, with something like certainty, that we know everything he did; for which reason, it is safe to assume that what we do not know of, he did not do.” I have encountered many foolish statements in literature; the one quoted is not the least of them. It would be far truer to say that we know every thought he had, and how foolish that would be! His letters reveal his sensations, his emotions and his thoughts, but they are singularly silent about what he did.
It would take a thorough knowledge of all the documents Miss Lowell brings to light, and require a deep study of all that has ever been written about Keats either to refute or to accept all her conclusions. Many of them will seem to the average reader an aggregation of useless details rather than an approach to the subject from a new angle, having a bearing on Keats the poet, or Keats the man. The task of discussing the foundation of her conclusions must be left to other biographers or students of the poet, of whom there are legions; and it can not be attempted at all until after the publication of all the notes of the poet’s friend, Brown.
John Keats’ brief life was singularly full, and the best of his record is to be found in the letters he wrote to friends, and to his brothers and sisters. Written from the fulness of the heart and with no other object than to relieve his mind and convey news, these constitute the most complete and comprehensive characterisation of the poet. Keats was modest about his genius, but he had an insatiable appetite for praise and love. And every one who knew him loved him and believed in him. It was the public that failed him. And sensitive as he was, its disdain, and the scorn of Lockhart and other critics, caused him profound suffering. To say that it killed him, as has been said countless times the past three generations, is to utter an absurdity. He had two most serious infectious diseases, and he had the kind of temperament that facilitates the progress of both of them.
Amy Lowell thinks that had he lived, he would probably not have been as great a poet as Browning. There seems small foundation for such a statement, and in this prophetless age, such pronouncements are worthless. What Keats produced in three years of poetic work, and less than one year of real inspiration, suggests at least that he would have been all the greater had he lived. He might not have developed emotionally, nor intellectually, but there is very little question that he would have developed critically and that his sense of values would have taken on keenness and profundity. Even as he was, his creative faculty was considerable. He could turn an inspirational current on at will. When it stopped flowing, or when it began to flow feebly, he could turn it off; then, while the Olympic dynamo was generating, and the Parnassian battery storing the divine fluid, he could turn on the light of criticism. Not all great poets can do that.